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A sweet aroma seeps in through my window with jasmine and honeysuckle blooming in the breeze. My next big adventure is just around the corner – plane, trains, buses and automobiles. I’ve got to fit a boat in there somewhere. I think I know where.

West coast to east coast and return via, mostly, Amtrak and Canada Rail.

The whole thing started with three very special reasons. One daughter. Two brothers. Looking forward (of course!) to my daughter’s BS in Nursing graduation celebration after a short plane hop to Denver, spending a bit of time with Mom’s 93-year old cousin in Gunnison CO, joining up with the famly exploring Estes Rocky Mountain National Park outside Denver, all followed by a brief road trip to the tiny town of Chimayo, New Mexico.

Then it’s “All Aboard!” from Lamy, NM to visit family and friends on the east coast. Seeing Niagara Falls and Canada for the first time. Walking through Butchart Gardens in Victoria. Getting to know new “couchsurfing.com” friends along the way. Having just helped my own family and neighbors put together a big 4th of July block party, I’ll be enjoying the 4th on a train ride in the country to the north of us.

One little easy-peasy trip led to a whole string of things to do and 5-7 weeks of visiting friends and family. Places to go. People to see. Connections to miss.

All I have to do now is make the list. Or lists.

Ten Things to do before I leave the homestead.

Finish reading the last twenty pages of Romancing the Pirate, Michelle Beattie, and take it back to the library. LOL. I know. I do have a wide variety of reading materials.

Upload my grandmother’s journal, written thirty years ago in the summer of 1938 when she was off on her own solo train trip from San Francisco to Alaska. I’m planning on reading it with a drink in one hand in the observation car as the rest of the world rolls by.

Make a list of what I want in that traveling backpack of mine. Laptop, misc. electronics, lotions, potions, sundries and something to wear.

Put a hold on the daily newspaper & provide the new nurse in the family with instructions on how-to-care-for-my-orchids (Raylan & Ava). Yes, they have names.

Do my spring cleaning. It’s not summer yet, but it will be when I return. Cobwebs, be gone.

Settle on my itinerary once and for all. Or not.

Count my blessings.

Sort out what I want in my wallet. Passport.

Finish Writers Club tasks to hand off to the team.

Offer up my cottage to a couple of friends and family to stay in if they wish to visit the valley and need a place to crash.

You didn’t know Jorge. He was just one of thousands of mentally ill patients living in one of your state mental health hospitals.

I wonder sometimes how his sister, his only surviving relative, is doing. I wonder if she knows the truth about how and why he died.

Jorge didn’t die from his heart disease, COPD, diabetes or long term dialysis treatments due to kidney failure. That’s how we all expected him to die. Fifty-five years old, in and out of hospitals much of his life, he was sure to die earlier than a healthy person his age.

Then he landed in one of your state mental hospitals. A few years after being admitted, his paranoia, his delusions and his lack of impulse control were somewhat improved. All we did to help him was of no help on his last day on earth. His last transport out of the hospital was in a body bag.

We told the patients, his peers on the ward, a couple of days later. Some already knew about it and some didn’t care. Some said “good riddance.” At the time of Jorge’s death, employees felt their own PTSD flare up again with increased respiratory rate, heart palpitations, and tears sneaking out during the unit de-briefing or later, in break room conversations.

Jorge’s dead because another patient killed him in the middle of the night when the unit was understaffed. He’s dead because your hospital refused to hire staff at appropriate patient levels based on the violent tendencies of many of our patients.

We know that the patient who killed Jorge will not be held responsible because of his own mental illness. Both men were mentally ill, both hospitalized for care and treatment. The hospital administration, and you—where the buck stops—is accountable for Jorge’s death. My colleagues know that. The doctors, the nurses, the janitorial staff all know it.

Yes, Jorge had a mean and nasty mouth on him, I’ll give him that. He could rile the calmest person in the room. That was his M.O. He was stingy. He was funny, flirty, kind at times, and very sad. He also played a wicked game of chess.

I moved from San Francisco to Napa CA in 2009 to take a new job. I wasn’t looking forward to living in what I thought of as a white-bread community. I soon realized how ignorant I was. I chose a working class neighborhood in which to make my home and eventually became active in the writing community.

Early in 2017, I sat in a roomful of well-meaning, mostly gringo artists at the Napa Valley State of the Arts event. I listened as the panelists discussed the fact that our local diverse communities were not in the room. One brave Latino photographer spoke up. “If you want to include them, you need to go to them. They are not going to come to you.” I wondered how to do that. I spoke to Izrael a few times during the next twelve months, and never really felt like I did much to help.

A year later, still wondering, I ran into him at the 2018 State of the Arts. I sat in on a small panel discussion, again, on diversity challenges, with mostly caucasians in the room. One out of three panelists was a young man I’d met earlier in the year. Intelligent, outspoken and passionate, Xulio had moved here as a kid many years ago with his family from Oaxaca, Mexico. He’s a social justice worker and a poet.

I’m the current president of Napa Valley Writers, and we were going to be hosting a first for our Valentine’s Day meeting just weeks later: Open Mic with Chocolate. I sat in front of the panel with an idea brewing, perhaps a way to bring our diverse communities together on one day of love – an Open Mic with Chocolate – Bilingual edition.

I spoke with Xulio at the panel’s conclusion and we met the next day. We were excited with our new plan. He reached out to his wide-spread ties in the local global south and native performing arts communities. We coordinated a bilingual public service announcement on local radio, distributed Spanish-English flyers, and promoted the event to our publicity contacts.

A few minutes before the Valentine’s Day event was to start, the room was practically empty and I worried. Fifteen minutes later, the place was packed with some of the usual crowd and many more people I hadn’t met, or seen, before.

Twenty-five people, forty percent of the attendees, young and old, read or performed their work in poetry, prose, and song from their hearts in many flavors of love – for the land, for the people, for a lover, for change. My collaborator was emcee, and at the opening, Xulio informed the gathering that we chose not to ask that every piece be translated. We wanted to hear with our hearts the understanding that was there for each of us.

Not being a Spanish or native speaker myself, I could occasionally pick out a few words like madre and amore. I thought of how so many others feel every day in the English language world of this America. My heart caught in my throat. We provided something very special that night. Everyone there was filled with compassion, togetherness, and the desire to move this one event forward into something more.

Speakers and listeners both touched their hearts with open hands with a feeling of gratitude and many of us had tears. Of course I’m still aware of our divisions, but at least once, together, we’ve experienced a bit of a bridge. The room pulsed with energy. One of our writers group members commented that it was the highlight of the year.

The Vintage high school girls’ Spanish and English words in poem and performance brought down the house as they spoke of the prejudices and injustices their families live with on a daily basis – and what they are doing to change it. The elder Mexican poet read from his journal to a pin-drop quiet audience, receiving a thunderous applause at the close. Charlie, native woman and elder, spoke and chanted, reminding us of our memories and our spirit that has been lost and is now being found again. Xulio’s performance dazzled. My Latino friend, who advised me that I had to go to them, spoke to me with misty eyes that matched mine.

Change is coming, I felt it that night and I feel it now.

(Thanks to the Napa Valley Register for running a version of this piece as a commentary in the Sunday 3/4/2018 edition)

We woke up late. Raylan and I decided it was a fine day to go over to the ocean, and headed west to Dillon Beach. As we rounded the last corner down to the sand, just on the south side of the road, we were surprised to find a 10-foot tall pirate statue. He was majestic! His left arm held high, he wields a sword like he means it.

After a lovely time in the warm sun and sea air, we drove back up to the Pirate, and got out of the car, intending to learn about him. We found what looks like the remains of two cannon mounts and not one word about the Pirate! There was evidence that at one time, possibly, two plaques had been set. They were gone as well.

So began the hunt. Driving along, we took turns googling pirate Dillon Beach, pirate Tomales Bay, pirate origin, Dillon Beach. Nothing. We learned online that George Dillon founded Dillon Beach in 1958. Plenty of webpages talked about pirates up and down the coast, but no-one could tell us the name of this particular pirate. Some webpage even declared there had only been one California pirate, a Frenchman by the name of Hippolyte de Bouchard, who raided the Presidio of Monterey in 1818. We were stumped and couldn’t believe that there had been only one pirate in all of California.

One post said it was a statue to commemorate George Dillon. We figured there had to be more to it than that. We drove by the Tomales Regional History Center, which was closed for the day. We decided to call them later.

We put the search on the back burner, realizing we were hungry and a good pizza was in order. Not just a good pizza – we wanted a great pizza. Yelping Petaluma on the phone, we chose Hector’s Pizza.

We almost drove off after seeing the storefront shop. Yelp gave Hector’s four and a half stars, though, so we went for it.

We were shown to our table by Daniella. Raylan asked where the bathroom was. Seconds after going through the door, he rushed back out, grabbing my hand. “You’ve gotta see this!”

In the corner of the hallway leading to the bathrooms, was a second magnificent version of our pirate!

We read a little history about Hec the Pirate. Born in Italy, he took off as a young man to pirate and sail the seas, ending up jailed in America. He and his pirate friends Luc, Jean Lafitte’s grandson, and Bluebeard, Blackbeard’s nephew, escaped a North Carolina Prison in a bloody battle in 1845. They fought their way onto a ship sitting in the harbor, complete with crew, and took off, sailing south around Florida and onward toward California’s west coast.

They pirated their hearts out, battled here and there, and by the time the ship, the Painter, arrived in northern California, they were low on rations – and spirit. Luc and Bluebeard had both died recently in a fight near San Diego. Hec was on his own with a straggly crew in his pocket.

On March 1st, 1848, the ship threw anchor in Tomales Bay, at Dillon Beach. The men were tired of marauding and pirating. They crawled into their little dinghies and made their way to shore. There were a few settlers there, a small camp of Indians, and luckily for everyone, they worked together and created friendships among themselves.

Of course, you may remember, 1848 was also the start of the Gold Rush. It turns out, Hec wanted in on it. He and a few of his crew, and a couple Indians, traveled up to the mountains and by god, they struck it rich. They couldn’t believe their luck. They didn’t wait around to see what would happen next, either.

They made their way back to Dillon Beach for the summer, and traveled inland in the fall for supplies in a little town of Petaluma . New businesses were starting up to supply the surge of incoming residents north of San Francisco. Hec and his friends wanted in on that, too.

The consummate leader, Hec looked around and settled on opening a restaurant. He remembered fondly the dinner pies that his grandmother had made almost every day of his young life. He opened his first Pizza shop and lived over that little hole in the wall, never marrying, until one day, while throwing a pizza into the oven, he had a heart attack and died right there on the spot.

Hec the pirate!

We asked Hector, the current owner about Hec and the statue and the story. He confirmed it all. That statue in the bathroom hallway was the original Hec statue. Somebody copied it later and sculpted it at the beach, complete with the details of Hec’s life as a pirate. Hector told us though, a few of Hec’s descendants stole the plaques. They wanted to keep Hec’s life to themselves.

It was so funny.

Back to the Hector’s in Petaluma. You can’t find better pizza – and caesar salad – than what we found at Hector’s. Even the menus have a fine rendition of Hec the Pirate on the back cover.

I like to think mothers the world over do their absolute best to provide loving arms, direction, laughter, and nurturance to the children in their lives. Some mothers do a better job than others – I know that. It’s not always easy. Or ever easy.

Other women, who haven’t birthed one baby, give their hearts and love to little ones each and every day. In my own heart, I know these women. I feel their love, their pain, their tears of joy, and the sadness in their hearts.

I salute you all. To my family and friends who are mothers, to the mothers of my family and friends, and their mothers, to the women who love and cherish their family, whatever that family looks like, to all our children — we are the lucky ones.

My own life has been heavily influenced by my mother and I wouldn’t change a thing for all we shared together. She taught me to stand by my friends and family, no matter what. She taught me to never give up my dreams and to always stand up for myself and for those in need. She taught me to keep peace in my heart, and in my world.

It was to be my first 50-mile bike ride in support of Cycle for Sight/Enchanted Hills Camp/Lighthouse for the Blind. I’ve been training for it. I ended up cutting the ride short—not because I couldn’t physically do it. Oh…I could have. Definitely could have.

No, I had a big Writers Club event at one o’clock. How the universe put together possibly my two biggest personal events of the year in one day, I have no idea.

I suppose it fits—a bike ride—and the release of a new book. Both treks take you up and down, over and over again, alternately speeding and holding back before coasting successfully across the finish line.

I arrived at the staging area at 7:30 in the morning, and commenced riding with the early birds at 8 o’clock, bike bag laden with water/gatorade and a granola bar. It turned out I didn’t need any of it. The Ride rest stations took good care of us. As I wheeled along with dozens of other riders, passing and being passed, I kept reminding myself – it’s a ride, not a race, it’s a ride, not a race.

The morning was glorious with stunning cloud formations and shoots of warm sunshine. I started out in leggings, silky red cashmere gloves, sleeveless gym shirt, and two jackets. By the time I hit the first rest stop, those jackets and gloves were packed inside my bag, my skin free to feel the cool air as I whizzed along.

We pedaled 7 or 8 easy miles through vineyards, alongside streams and past lush greenery north of the start line until we arrived at the Yountville Veteran’s Home. We sailed up the wide driveway, along Memorial Mile lined with staked posters calling out the names of Veterans and Ride supporters. Donations to the Ride are split between The Lighthouse for the Blind and Pathway Home, a Veterans Organization.

It was a quick porta-potty stop and several minutes of walking and stretching. The Ride Support crews served up a huge spread of orange sections, power drinks, water, cookies, and hard boiled eggs. I grabbed a few bites before heading off.

On the way down the hill, I purposely wheeled close to a 90-year-old-ish Vet with a WWII ball cap on his hairy head. He was in his wheelchair watching the riders on parade. I thought of all our old dads who’ve served, and called out to him, “Thank you for your service!” I was more than happy with the slight smile and nod I received in reply.

I’ve ridden many miles in the valley—up, down, and across. My longest until yesterday was 27 miles, sometime in the past few weeks. At one point on the route, when the race guides suggested going left (north), I thought better and went south, to the right. I was thinking of the time and wanting to head back.

I was sailing along when I looked over to see a well-known and oft-visited landmark—Mumm’s tasting room. That shouldn’t be there, I thought, starting to laugh. After my initial surprise, I was cracking up. I hadn’t been riding south after all. I’d been getting in several extra miles to the north!

There was no traffic so I quickly made a nice wide u-turn and headed south. For real. A few miles later, just after stopping at the top of an incline, I texted one of my friends to check in, and sailed down a rough patch of bike lane. FWHKISH! What was that noise? I slowly braked, and looked down to see a rear flat tire.

Was I ever surprised. There was a brand new tire/tube on that wheel.

I wasn’t only thinking about the flat, and what to do about it—I was thinking about the next big event I needed to get to. I didn’t think I had time for a flat. In less than two minutes though, two biker-angels came to my rescue.

The first, a rider about my age, sailed across the road from his own ride north. “Could you use some help?”

Laughing, I answered, “Yes I could.”

He asked me a few more questions. To which I replied, “No, I don’t have an extra tube. No, I don’t know how to fix a flat, either.”

Standing at his bike, he answered, “I’ve got one right here that’ll work for you.” He pulled an empty tube like a magic trick right of his little carry pack attached to his bike seat.

His name is Blair. He lives here in town. We talked about the idea of me learning how to change a flat sometime, in a helpful manner of course. No judgments. He got his little tools out to pry the tire off and get the tube out. It wasn’t easy as they were new and stiff. Just as he was finishing up that task, as we chit-chatted, a ride support-van came along, also heading north. Anthony (I learned his name quickly) popped out of the van and crossed the road, air pump in hand. “Need some help?!”

Other riders would pass us, cheerily calling out “Need help?” or “You guys all right?” and once—”Get out of the bike lane!” That last one was from the only women who yelled out at us. “It’s a ride, not a race,” Anthony said as the three of us chuckled. Where were we supposed to be? In the weedy drainage ditch on the side of the road?

They finished helping me, we said our goodbyes & good lucks and each of us headed off on our merry ways.

Early on, I had decided I had time for the 25-miler. With those extra miles of mine, I ended up at the finish line with 34 miles! Woo hoo! I also had a new bike tube, two ride t-shirts, new friends, and a wine glass half filled with a nice cool white. I was able to chat a bit with my friends from The Lighthouse – Tony, Kathy, and James before I made my way a mile or so to Rob & Liz’s house where I’d stashed a car and dress-up clothes.

After a shower and a little make-over, I headed out to the Napa Valley Writers Book Launch. First Press, with stories and poems from over 45 authors of Napa Valley, was finally seeing the light of day – we were excited! Over 50 people attended this fabulous event. More than a dozen of our authors read excerpts from their work. We enjoyed each other’s company, along with a nice spread of wine, cheeses, baguettes, and chocolate covered strawberries put together by our Launch Team on a beautiful Earth Day afternoon.

On a sad note, one of our First Press authors died recently – just prior to his work being published. I’d invited his wife beforehand to join us at the Launch. I watched Maryann in her dark teal sweater as she filmed one of our writers reading Michael (Mike) Layne’s piece to the crowd. I was touched, and I know she was. I think we were all touched as we thoroughly enjoyed the reading of Mike’s story, “Vittoria’s Secret”.

All, or almost all, the books we had on hand sold out. Some of us laughingly passed our books around to get autographs—just like high school. First Press: Collected Works from Napa Valley Writers 2017 is available now at The Bookmine in Napa and First Press at amazon.com

My writing desk sits smack in front of a big window. I pause as I write to peek out on life as it moves on in front of me. On a beautiful sunny day such as this, I sit in the warm sun. The light is so bright, I happily don a baseball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes to continue to enjoy the sun’s warmth.

I haven’t written on this blog for a while. My heart, and my soul, seems to have been on strike since November 8, 2016.

I am and have always been grateful for the millions of immigrants and their families who made the difficult journey to this land in the North American continent. Our lives are more full and blessed in so many ways. Language, ideas, and ideals. Inventions to make life grand, written words to awaken our souls, works of art broaden our horizons. Together, we toil each and every day, educating children, caring for families here and abroad. Doctors, nurses, teachers, service providers, physicists, politicians, road workers, writers, musicians, neighbors and friends. Good people. Upstanding people I call my friends; friends and strangers who never, ever pose a risk to me and my security.

I, and almost everyone I know in this country, come from a family of immigrants.

I am so ashamed of the new federal leadership. I ache for the souls who could very well be punished by an evil, narcissistic, mean-spirited and mentally unstable man who was elected president this past year. His followers and supporters are no less guilty in the travesty they are planning, and the results that could come.

The world is watching.

Thank goodness for the resistance of our local residents across this land and around the world. We will never stand idly by. This is not an easy task ahead of us. We cannot rest.

When I sat down today, the sun shone on one half of my face. It’s just how I feel. One half of me is proud of everything we all have brought to this world. The other side lives in a dark place, fearing where we are going.

Each day I sit in the sun revives me for another. Just one word came to me to close this short tale.